to be between two religions
by smithensy
Summary: Early one morning, Marius Pontmercy attends the swimming school where Enjolras is a regular. Implied slash.


Marius is in a daze in the dressing room, in the showers, as he walks from that cloister of dry rooms to the lukewarm and humid area of the pool facility.

His visit to the swimming school this morning marks the return of a habit he had many months before discarded: owing to his obligations concerns at the publishing house which had drawn him from his reveries, forced him to work more than he was inclined he has not slept properly in some days, and if the years of his adolescence are to be any evidence, the physical exertion of swimming never fails to rejuvenate and reset his body to its natural state. Besides that, newfound independence, penniless independence at that, distracted him from his old routines; he has neglected his body in favor of his mind. But he is here again, and has resolved to continue to be here even on days when it is not strictly necessary to wake him up. Courfeyrac was generous in giving him the sous to spend his morning bathing, indeed, he gave enough for a month's worth of patronage; he does not wish for the loan to be in vain.

(A year ago he would not have accepted a loan at all.)

Once he is in the water he feels momentarily as though he does not remember how he became so, but ducking under solves this problem, and then he is able to attempt once more that rhythm of the arms and legs which is only possible for a man submerged.

The first thirty meters are slow; on the second length he goes a little faster. The third and fourth are taxing, and when he nears the side of the pool where he started, he realizes that in his absence he has forgotten how to properly breathe.

A queue has formed at the end of the lane, in the shallow end. He surfaces to join it, treading water, bobbing: the floor is just enough inches beneath him that he is underwater entirely if he tries to stand upon it.

"Marius Pontmercy?"

In a careful balance, Marius tilts his head sideways to press the water out of his ear, presses his curly wet hair back from his forehead with the heel of his palm. The length is growing bothersome, but with all his distractions he has not yet seen to a barber. Now that he is attempting swimming practise, he is more cognizant of that necessity.

If he remembers, he'll ask Courfeyrac about it later.

"Marius Pontmercy."

He remains in place, another point in the line of swimmers. No one knows him, here, so whatever voice is saying his name must be an imagined one. It does sound a little familiar, but all imaginary voices must; it is not so uncommon to hear one's name amongst a din of human speech. Sound in the natatory room echoes.

Something brushes against his knee under the water, and he flinches.

Then he blinks. The something was someone, and the someone was saying his name indeed. It is Enjolras, Courfeyrac's friend, who is before him now. Marius feels blood rush to his cheeks: in recent months he has spent plenty of time with Courfeyrac, some even with L'Aigle and Jean Prouvaire, and although they have been not too long ago in the same room, his most prominent memory of being alone with Enjolras even if it is from years ago! is not one he is fond of. And it is alone, here, a quick glance tells him that everyone else in the swimming school at this hour indeed is a stranger.

"What a pleasure it is to see you, Citizen," says Enjolras, gracious. Although he does not smile, not really, he gazes into Marius with light in his eyes, an earnest turn in his lips; the discomfort dissipates. Looking at him, Marius forgets to paddle his hands and kick his legs, and he nearly sinks.

Then Enjolras takes his elbow and holds him upright, completely level, until he starts again. Marius looks down and sees that only his legs move beneath the water.

"Huh," says Marius, for he sees also that Enjolras looks very different while undressed. And too: were it not for the fact that he has on previous occasions accompanied him elsewhere, alongside Courfeyrac, Marius might assume that the man existed solely in lamplit backrooms, speaking of Thermidor and guillotines and Rousseau and crime and whatever other conversational matters to which republicans so devout as he were prone.

(In fact, Marius has never before in his life heard Enjolras utter the word "guillotine".)

It is difficult to shake the impression that Enjolras should not be here, for in a swimming pool is a far cry from in the street, bathing clothes have little in common with an overcoat, Courfeyrac is not here to mind him, and thus there is nothing about this encounter which Marius can relate to any others.

Enjolras looks at him with an unreadable expression high forehead smooth, head tilted. Droplets of water are still upon his cheeks, flushed only slightly with exertion; a damp lock of hair falls at his brow. In daylight, when dry, Enjolras's hair is pale but with a golden sheen; here it is nearly translucent. It curls about his face like a girl's.

...he is, however, very much a man, even if Marius had thought them each the same age at one point that horrible cusp when one is between adult and child until Courfeyrac had mentioned otherwise. Marius thinks to himself that if young women were to smile at Enjolras, it would be because they think him handsome, whether he wore a threadbare coat or not. Himself, he has no such good fortune.

Another man begins his next length; they move up in the line. Marius grabs the curved edge of the wall so that he need not exert effort simply to stay in place.

Enjolras does no such thing. It seems to Marius that he ought to have better things to do than attend open hours at the swimming pool so early in the day. He nearly asks the question 'why are you here, at a quarter to seven in the morning?' then thinks better of it, but he senses that his mouth is opening and closing like that of a fish.

A fitting comparison for the setting, even if any respectable fish ought be far more comfortable in the water than Marius himself.

"You think it odd that I attend the swimming school."

...even after time apart, it is as though Enjolras knows everything he has ever thought, and thinks him wrong for it.

Marius presses his lips together and nods.

"Man ought to be in water as he is on land."

Dimly Marius recalls that this was an opinion published by Rousseau, and determines that his impression of Enjolras was at least not entirely inaccurate.

He makes no reply, however. What is there to say?

They are splashed by a turning swimmer. The wall is not really meant for conversation.

Enjolras touches his shoulder, and a thrill travels down Marius's back. "And indeed," he says, "my mother will need her navymen," and then he moves nearer to the wall, bends his knees, and pushes into a swift, effortless crawl stroke.

Marius watches the contraction of his back and curve of his elbow, dazed.

So he continues swimming laps. So early in the morning is an unusual time to be at the pool; the room is hardly crowded. There are but four other men in his lane besides Enjolras, each of whom seem to match his own capability and speed. Enjolras passes them all at various points and is utterly considerate about it.

Swimming, Marius believes, develops his mind and body at once. He once regularly attended the school at the quai d'Orsay to hone the skill, for lessons and for free-time alike, but with all his practice he has not become exceptional, and his year upon dryland only has certainly not done him any favors. It is very well, he supposes, for while Enjolras has mentioned the Navy, the Emperor's conquests were made upon land, not water; a honeybee can fly but not swim. There were no seas to be crossed at Marengo or Borodino.

In any case, he does not aspire to join the military, or at least, not for a France under the House of Bourbon. Still, he would like to be skilled at it, and devotes himself to lessons wholeheartedly, practices on his own time. Physical fitness is important. He imagines, too, that his father would have valued a son who strives to be competent in all man's capacities, being ranked so in the military, and dreams that he is growing up in the fashion of Baron Colonel Georges Pontmercy. Yes, Marius would like to be an upstanding young man in his father's image: versatile, well-rounded, a superlative version of himself, suited for a nation united under the Empire.

Since leaving his grandfather's house he has lapsed in discipline; it used to be that he might go swimming whenever the thought passed his mind on his returns from Vernon, after a lecture, upon waking, before retiring. He did not exert himself only when he thought he needed to, but regularly, with the cognizance that to do so improved him as a man; once he learned the truth of his lineage, his desire for that improvement only increased.

Well: he has lapsed in _this_ discipline; without discipline he could not have learned to read in German or English, nor maintained steady work, earned his keep. Without discipline, he would not have made up his mind upon his employment and devoted his free-time to pondering and reading and listening, to taking walks in the city and dining at old-fashioned restaurants. But while his thoughts have flourished, his form has suffered.

Luckily, even after time away, the water still refreshes him. He will much prefer it to accompanying Courfeyrac to see his friends on his days off, and at times when he is not inclined to be social, to passing the hours with old Mabeuf, as well. He will allow himself plenty of time to improve again.

Meanwhile, Enjolras is as comfortable in the water as a dolphin although perhaps he would not prefer precisely that comparison. His technique and his vigor are mesmerizing; he cannot help but watch whenever he has the chance. He glides more than double the length of his body at once and turns his head to breathe without altering the positioning of his torso and legs; the muscles in his narrow shoulders and back tense and relax in rhythm. His strokes and kicks have strength behind them. The wool of his bathing costume conforms to his thighs and his shoulders and to his body, generally, in a manner that would be inappropriate, were ladies present. When he swims upon his back, Marius finds that he must avert his eyes.

The hour continues on, and Enjolras does not leave.

Each time Marius feels they are distant from one another, he then notices Enjolras approaching from behind him. Enjolras simply has more stamina. It is unfortunate, thinks Marius, that the months of absence from the swimming school have rendered his own body foreign to him. He must breathe more frequently, pause at the end of the course for longer once, he was more capable. He feels as though he has entered into a competition against his will, that he need prove something, he begins to kick harder, pull with more effort.

But it is too much, too soon, and so as he finishes the fourth length of a repetition of 120 metres, pause he does.

Some seconds later, Enjolras performs a gymnastic somersault beneath the water beside him, and continues on without taking a breath.

Marius lays his forearms upon the edge of the floor above the pool and rests his head upon his elbow, breathing heavily. His pulse is still racing from the exertion.

He stays like that for a little longer, allowing the other men to pass him by, until an old man in an impermeable waistcoat and garish taffeta water-cap leans over to him to say, "have you finished, then?"

Marius, his arms keeping him buoyant at the wall, feeling as dazed as he had upon his arrival, can do nothing but blink up at him dumbly. The old man tuts and begins to dip his toes into the water beside his shoulder.

He understands this message, and so hoists himself out of the pool, the session concluded.

When Enjolras enters the dressing area from the shower room, holding his wrung-out swimming costume in one hand and a linen towel around his waist with the other, Marius himself is nude and examining a hole in his chemise. He tries not to let this new presence phase him, but finds he can think only of the thoughts which must run through Enjolras's head: he is poor, he cannot afford even a patch for his shirt, he thinks little of his own appearance, he is foolish, he does not finish what he starts, he lacks in self-government... He cannot imagine the words in Enjolras's voice, for Enjolras has only ever been kind to him; nonetheless he cannot shake the sensation that he is being sneered at.

"In the interest of verity," begins Enjolras abruptly, "I shall say that I may speak only on my own behalf." He retrieves a stack of folded garments from the shelves, sets them upon one of the benches diagonally from Marius and then lays the towel down and sits, begins patting himself down with a smaller one. Marius turns from him before he sees more than he ought to. "But, I have missed your presence at society gatherings."

This is not sneering.

Marius does not look at him.

"Thank you?" he manages to reply, but the words leave his lips with garbled intonation; he sounds to his own ear a schoolboy unsure of his recitation. He has not actually attended a meeting of the society of the Friends of the ABC in nearly two years.

"No need." This is accompanied by a sound resembling a laugh, but softer, somehow kinder. He has the impression that behind him Enjolras is watching him waiting for him, perhaps, to say that he misses attending them, or that he would like to come again soon. But there is nothing to wait for: Marius has long-since made his decision upon the state of things, and though he maintains friendly relations with some of the society's members, he does not wish to be a friend himself.

"I am glad that I am graced with it here, nevertheless," Enjolras continues. "Do you swim often?"

He sets down his shirt. In any other circumstance, confronted with a man he knows in such a strange environment, he is sure he would feel compelled to dress and depart as quickly as possible. To do this to Enjolras, however, seems as though it might be disrespectful

The fact that he is even considering this facet of etiquette makes him feel as though he ought to follow his instinct, and stay.

"I used to."

"Perhaps you might begin again."

Marius does not look at him.

"Perhaps. Yourself?"

"Yes, thrice a week, in winter."

Marius says, "it is very cold this year."

In an ordinary conversation they would be seated or standing across from one another, able to observe the other's countenance, and fully clothed. Owing to the latter aspect, Marius is unwilling to turn around. He gazes at the wall, instead, and simply hears: an occasional splash from the corridor to the pool, the squeak of a hand-crank in the shower room next door, the whir of water through pipes. He feels his arms hang limp at his sides and becomes suddenly aware of his own body and his state of undress, as though he ought be doing something with himself; he crosses his arms at his belly and clenches his hands, a little.

"And to be moving is to be warm," says Enjolras, breaking the quiet. His tone gives Marius the impression he might be quoting something, but he cannot imagine what. It is not so complex a thought. "In summer, there is more to do out of doors; I maintain the habit in winter for the body's sake. One does not feel cold so much if he exerts himself regularly."

"That is true," says Marius, and he fidgets, rubbing his knees together awkwardly, before adding softly "you do swim very well."

"Ah thank you, as do you."

There it is: perhaps Enjolras intends to mock him, perhaps his flattery is insincere. Marius scoffs a little too loudly, and begins to arrange his clothing that he can depart sooner.

"You do not think so? You've excellent technique, Marius; I imagine only that you are out of practice. Yours is a problem of stamina."

Excellent technique, with a problem of stamina.

Perhaps Enjolras is simply the most earnest man he has ever met, and wishes only for the improvement of others. Perhaps Marius is being stupid and ought to stop thinking that Courfeyrac's friends see him a half-wit.

"I do not intend to give unwelcome criticism. Indeed, I hope to see you continue. Yes, I come here to be warm, but so too does swimming develop not only the musculature of a man but also his discipline and character a regular practice from which we may all benefit," comes his voice again, falling into the same, lofty tone from before, and uncharacteristically wistful.

"Are those your words?" blurts Marius, for he cannot help himself.

"No, in fact, they are my father's, though the idea cannot be attributed to any one man."

"Your father!"

Yes, this conversation is sincere, after all.

Marius attempts to picture Enjolras-the-senior, and only succeeds in imagining a broad and graying Enjolras-Courfeyrac's-friend. He thinks to himself, with some bitterness, that Enjolras has words from his father, in his father's voice; perhaps Enjolras visits his father at Christmastime in the provinces, wherever he is from, and swimming in winter is a strange sort of family tradition that began there.

"How yes, my father."

"How splendid!"

"Among numerous other things, he taught me to swim himself; I learned in the Loire. I am fond of those memories."

Questions come to him at a rapid pace; he says everything that comes into his mind at once, unable to stop himself.

"The river, you mean? Wouldn't it be cold, in wintertime? Well, you are from the South, I can tell by the way you never mind, perhaps it is warmer there, do you swim together still?"

"Indeed the river, and yes, very cold in all seasons. We swam out of doors only, and only in summer: the water comes from the mountains. There were no heated baths and steam pumps as in Paris."

This only partially satisfies Marius, yet he stops himself from continuing the interrogation, cognizant of his running mouth. After a moment, Enjolras adds quietly, "My father died, however, when I was twelve. By that time I was living with my uncle and did not see him regularly."

Marius's heart stutters, and he at last turns around to look at him.

Enjolras sits with his back straight as a soldier's, his legs parted at the thighs and crossed at the ankles. His hair is soaked, still; Marius watches a drop of water fall from a curl to his shoulder, along his toned chest and abdomen. No matter how frail or feeble he may seem while clothed, owing to lean limbs and reedy hands and skin that at times was more wan than rosy, in the water, clad in clinging wool and always in motion, it had been clear that Enjolras had the build more of a warrior than a wilting flower. Perhaps he was raised as Marius imagines he himself might have been, in different circumstances: he mentioned lessons, so it is that his uprightness and his constitution and his fitness are products of his parentage.

Here, stripped, the look of him makes Marius wonder for a moment what else about Enjolras ought be obvious to him that isn't.

He feels heat rise to his cheeks when he realizes that Enjolras sees him looking, and turns his gaze to the floor, instead, just for a moment, to rid himself of the sense of impropriety.

"I didn't know," he says, mouth suddenly dry, and then he looks at Enjolras once more now in the eyes. Here they can hold one another's gaze, where before Marius was utterly incapable of it.

"Thus I have told you. I do not think of him often; you needn't offer commiseration."

"But you see you see I was seventeen."

"Pardon?"

Breathe.

"When my own father died, I was seventeen. I never knew him. As a boy he did not teach me to swim, nor anything else, but I come here now in his honor. My mother died when I was five. I have a grandfather, but he is nothing to me now, and an aunt, but she lives in his house."

Enjolras tilts his head to one side, quizzical, and says nothing. Marius cannot think of what to do, but once more his mouth continues for him, and once he has started he finds he cannot stop whether or not Enjolras understands, or wishes to hear it, is of no consequence, for the need to justify himself has risen in him, and can only be satisfied in this way. "I was kept from my father. I've neither fond nor unfavorable memories of him in life, for I learned the truth about him only upon his death, from reading a letter he left me and then the newspapers, the army bulletins. I never knew him at all. At my age he was fighting in the Army of the Rhine you will know about the battles of Jemappes, and Pirmasens, and Mainz, surely "

"Of course under the Republic."

A font seems to come up from within Marius at Enjolras's hallowed tone as he pronounces the word, Republic.

"He fought under the Republic in his youth, and he fought under the Empire as a man. Under the Republic he rose in the ranks, but achieved no glory; the Republic was a stepping stone for my father as it was for France. I respect it, do not have that air; I respect the Republic. I must respect what laid the foundation, but it is the construction which I venerate. The Emperor was the builder; his method was as conqueror. To France he brought triumph, the gleam of the future, a territory united in greatness; that is what my father fought for. Under the Emperor my father became a captain and then a Major. At Waterloo it was he who seized the regimental colours of the Limburg Rifles; doing so earned for him a Legion of Honor and a barony, and now that is mine. I cannot be all what he wished for me, not after my childhood, not after the theft of the throne, but I "

From experience, he is careful not to end his speech with a question.

"I endeavor to honor him in all that I do."

Enjolras is neither solemn nor amused; he does not scoff, but he has lost a little of the approval in his gaze. He seems almost sad. He says, "thus you admire Buonaparte," and clasps his hands before him, looks at Marius with searching eyes.

Marius is incapable of processing this. "Why "

"You do not care for my pronunciation; I do not care for yours. '95 was a service, '97 a warning, '99 a betrayal. I shall call a tyrant as I please."

"It is a matter of principle," says Marius, and there is more he wishes to say, but Enjolras's tone is sobering, final. Enjolras looks him up and down; he becomes once more aware of his undress, and turns away a little.

"It is good for a man to have principles," begins Enjolras. "You have them, as you say, and you've a vehemence about them; for that I respect you. Apathy is the adversary of progress and good-will, Marius, and that is a matter upon which I daresay we agree. You speak of foundations: that laid by the people in '89 and '93 has not crumbled despite the efforts of those who sought to rule France by force, but I cannot agree with you that Buonaparte built upon its legacy, and I should not agree were someone to say the same of Louis XVIII or Charles X." then he pauses, and goes on only with, "forgive me for my untowardness, Citizen, for I do not wish to discomfit you. You are an intelligent, impassioned man; you have bared your soul to me; you have confided in me, and I have met you not with consideration but with contrarianism."

The contrarianism itself is of no consequence, for Marius cannot imagine that Enjolras will ever understand him, nor he Enjolras. This matter is one upon which he has made his mind, but now he is confronted with it again. Marius does not want to be a pupil, as Courfeyrac said once; he wants to keep to himself, stay true to what he knows is right, remain steadfast. In a way, this is worse than the scorn he has imagined receiving, than the words he perceived as mockery, from Enjolras, for now that he is receiving such clear praise, he cannot even think ill of his intentions.

He and Enjolras are different in their views, in their routines, in their beliefs.

But they are alike, in some ways, too.

"You are not untoward."

"No?"

"You are always discussing politics. It would be foolish of me to expect otherwise, but I am not uncomfortable to do so as well; it is only that I disagree with you on the fundamentals. I have laid out my reasons for you."

"Which of them?"

This gives Marius pause.

Enjolras looks almost pleased with himself.

"I refer, of course, to your fundamentals, Marius."

"I have we not established this? You want to discuss now?" For it is rather a miracle they've not been intruded upon, in the state they're in, the conversation they've had. Neither of their philosophies are particularly palatable for most, Marius imagines, but to please the palate is not why they keep them.

"Of course there are better venues for this discourse," he continues, and at long last he pats himself down with the ends of the towel before retrieving and donning his shirt, which is bright white and seems freshly laundered. "Have you yet plans for your day, Marius?"

Now Marius turns from him entirely, back to where he started, and he picks up his own to do the same. The new tear in his chemise - he has a little money now, Madame Bourgon can darn it, if he remembers to ask - is right at the collar; his coat will not conceal it. The old one is inconveniently revealing. It is laundered, but worn and yellowed.

Another difference between them.

"No," he says, shirt over his head. He pushes his arms through, adjusts it, and fastens each button of the placket Enjolras does the same, and at the same time.

Each across from the other they wrap their shirts, don their trousers; Enjolras has more pieces in his outfit than Marius but takes somehow less time to dress. Enjolras fastens his overcoat at his throat.

Another similarity.

He gathers his own things; Enjolras offers assistance. Once they are orderly he clasps Marius's shoulder, just like in times before, and then his hand slides along his back that they may link arms.

"Allow me to take you to breakfast."

"Oh," replies Marius, a little caught off-guard. "All right."

And so he allows himself be lead, just this once, and they depart together.


End file.
